SUNDAY, DECEMBER 15 1020
UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN, LAWRENCE. KANSAS
PAGE FIVE
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PAGE TWO
THE MAGAZINE SECTION OF THE UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN
Seesaw
By May Williams Ward
The Bozart Press, Atlanta. Ga., 1929, $1.50
Reviewed by Stella Brookway
A first glimpse into this delightful little volume of silver and purple promises keen delight. The title poem of the collection is a first taste of the enjoyment ahead of the reader.
A child learns up . . . down
A child learns or... down
a dog learns or... swims away;
Laugh cry; Love die; death;
Laugh cry; Love die; death;
God himself breathes rhythmically
... Fall ... Spring ... Fall ... Spring.
See now in the up . . . down
of a seasaw swing;
Key, pattern, symbol. All
of everything.
Knew
Catching up the collection in an odd moment, I read every poem before I laid down the book. I found a series of thumb-nail sketches, of tiny etchings of human drama, of contrasts of light and shade. Brief little rhymes, expressed so concisely they resemble reliefs in black and white with occasional backgrounds of gray. They constitute an intellectual experience—never a sensuous orgy.
The attractiveness of the volume is enhanced by the illustrative wood cuts drawn by Mr. Ward herself. She strengthens for an, in this way, the ideas she wants to suggest.
It is good to know that the author is one of our own. She graduated from K. U, in 1909 with a major in mathematics. It may be to this that we owe her great influence and inspiration in Behring, she is nationally known for her poetry, having contributed widely to poetry magazines, as well as the Bookman, Forum, Nation, Life, Good Housekeeping and others. For the past four years she has personally edited the poetry magazine, *The Poet*.
We are pleased, too, to know that she is chosen this year as alumna judge for the William Herbert School.
Her parsons are all so variously interesting, it is a serious task to choose one outstanding verse. The parsons read it in verse.
The School Mistress
Before she married and settled down In the tiny, huddled western town
She charted words in loops and turns,
Puzzling graphs a school child learns.
And letter sequences to spell—
She thought she knew words very well.
But- words she clasped or long or short,
Hard or easy, have new import,
Hard or easy, have new import,
Now as she lives them, and their relation
Learns from the wind's reiteration:
Intricate, polysyllabic "fear";
"Quilt" screaming into her ear;
"Loneliness," snaky under the gate,
And a huge, heavy word called "hate."
Genius
Lightning is a crazy
Witchfied tree.
All its branches grow
Too suddenly.
Everyone, almost prefers
The oak.
Slow of growth, serene,
Like common folk.
William Allen White
By Fred L. Fleming
PEN AND SCROLL
William Allen White is undeniably among the foremost of our present day authors and journalists. His rise has been somewhat phenomenal although entirely in keeping with his indomitable will and dynamic continuity of purpose. He is known throughout the country as a newspaper publisher, political commentator, and author. He presides those around him as having the gift of eternal youth alone with the wisdom of age.
Mr. White was born in Emporia, Kansas, February 10, 1888. His father was Alten White, a descendant of Puriton stock and a firm believer in the Christian faith. He attended Mary Hatton High School, where he was Mary Hatton High, a forceful, dominating, Irishman whose influence on young William's life may be clearly observed today. In comment-
The Prince of Vagabonds
By Cathine Dunn
OUILL
Who other than Harry A. Frenck started on the first of his journeys with $31.8 in his pocket could deserve such a title? Even in his boyhood he had to be careful not to give him in the little Michigan village where he was foretold the character of this man who has taken so great an interest in his fellows that he has spent most of the years of his life vanguarding in foreign lands as well as in his native country.
In 1903 he received his degree from the University of Michigan, and after a year spent in doing post-graduate work at Harvard he decided to follow the impulse of all his life—to journey around the world and to prove that it could be done without money. The result of this trip of fifteen months was a tour of seven countries, the World" which immediately not with much fame as one of the most fascinating books of travel ever published. Mr. Frank says of travel: "To move through a foreign country shut up in a moving room, carrying with one modern luxuries of home is not travel. We call it to be courtesy." This is why he forwards the main methods of travel and an important tool he devised to investigate the masses, so he walked among them and reached all the unknown corners of each country that the regular tourist never finds.
In 1911 he started on his four year journey through Latin America, and the result of this "Vagabonding Down the Andes" is regarded by the author as his most valuable book. The story of this trip reads like an "Arabian Night" tale, yet it constitutes the complete picture of a continent very much larger than itself, charming because the humor of the author is always prevalent, as when he contrasts the maked country people of Colombia coming on board the ship and turturing their fingers into the sauces of desert with the cultivated people that he found in the cloistered capital of this same country. Here, he finds himself in the mustal picture of a Parisian boulevard by dressing complete from derby to patent leather.
The next best thing to traveling yourself is to follow Mr. Franck in his journeys throughout all lands. Perhaps some of us do not envy him in his footwear wanderings, but when we read his books we can enjoy the filling companion, or joying the delights of the journey mums its fatigue and inconvenience.
Mr. Franck served in the World War and after the Armistice wrote "Wagabonring Thing Changing Germany." He is now married and his wife accompanies him on his journeys.
The Taper
--you should tie of loving me
Some one of our far days,
Then never start to hide your heart
Or cover thought with praise.
Reviewed by Sheridan E. Macon
The last issue contains eighty poems and bits of verse of varying merit. Much of it is obviously lacking in either profundity of idea or emotion. The other issues are rich with the development of versification both in form and subject matter.
"The Taper" is published occasionally as an outlet of the versification class of Valparaiso University, under the instruction of Margarette Ball Dickson.
The poems in the collection may be commended for their simplicity and tendency to make use of subjects with which the students have had personal experience. The majority deal with abstract ideas and description rather than with characterization and emotion.
As Valparaiso University is a small school, having between four and five hundred students, the collection of poems presented in "the Taper" does not involve much poetry, as well as the enterprise of the instructor.
A selection by Mrs. Dickson on the last page is the only non-student contribution. It appears under the title "I Ain't Goin' Home for Christmas." Mrs. Dickson is well known as a writer of poetry at the university, the jafferson for the newspaper the Kansas issue of "Troubadour" which will be published this month.
Collected Poems
By Margaret Widderman
Reviewed by Lida Eckdall
Poems" she has combined and rearranged four of her poems" she has cobined and rearranged four of her books of verse,"Factories?" "Old Road to Paradise," "The Book of Life," "Ballads and Lyrics." Scattered through, as well, are more recent, unpublished poems. These are divided into logical groups and toward the back of the book are the poems of greatest popularity—the most common in most often reprinted and copied in anthologies.
The poems are modern in their content, treatment and interpretation, with a bit of experienced philology. The poem itself is an exquisite work, the quieter things of existence, as death, wistfulness, and past loves. Sometimes a surprise comes in at the end of a verse that makes the following lines rich in content, as in the poem, "Tea," which concludes.
"And let me run into the grass
"And let the run into the grass
And climb a sunset hill,
And find three hours one year ago,
When I was living still."
A bit of bold pantomime is revealed in, "Pagane," "Through I go by with banners," Oh never envy me The thick glue of courage flying. This purple that you see.
This air of marching triumph
Was all that I could save
Of loves that had an ending
And hopes that had a grave."
The same typical spirit may be gleamed in, "If You Should Tire of Loving Me." It not only shows a profit by past experience but a willingness to fight a new battle.
For every word you would not say
For every word you would not so.
Be sure my heart has heard,
So go from me all silently
Without a kiss or word;
For God must give you happiness.
And, oh, it may befall
In listening long to Heaven's song
I may not care at all!"
The Watcher
The Watcher
She always leaned to watch for us,
Anxious if we were late,
She always leamed to watch for us
Anxious if we were late,
In winter by the window,
In summer by the gate;
And though we mocked her tenderly,
Who had such foolish care,
The long way home would seem more safe
Because she waited there.
Her thoughts were all so full of us
She never could forget!
And so I think that where she is
She must be waiting yet,
Perhaps the classical keynote of, "Collected Poems," lies in, "After." The aspiration, the climb, the struggle and the strife end in clearness, beauty and an untrubbed sky.
"These were the hills I climbed. And these were the deep waters
He doesn't touch me.
And I don't snatch woods that tore my fingers.
But they shred wind blow . . .
These were the hills that seemed an end of climbing. How far below they lie.
And oh, how clear the sunlight and blue dreaming
Of this untroubled sky? ___
WINTER EVENING
RHADAMANTHI
Pale, like the hands of a lady dying
Dim, as a young aspen's silver shade;
Soft, like a thin wisp of gray smoke flying
Cold, as the gleam of an ice blade.
Gone, like a breath of wind through a pine grove sighting;
Sud, as the far, wild tones of a lost flock crying.
Clarence Short.
THE HILLS OF HERE
There is no better place than here
Among the elephant hills,
The slow grey hills that wake at night
To trumpet to the moon.
Ars Martius
—Avis Metcalfe
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